


Fitness Tests

by FaerieChild



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:01:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5125064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaerieChild/pseuds/FaerieChild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unhappy with the Quartermaster's new impossibly-high fitness requirements for double-o's, 003, 005 & 007 get Q to agree to take the tests himself. Whatever Q's own results will be the new fitness baseline. What could they possibly have to lose?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fitness Tests

**Author's Note:**

> For reasons unknown, my brain insists Q does triathlons in his spare time. This is an extension of that headcanon.

Bond pounded the treadmill. His legs ached, his lungs burned. In a secret laboratory deep inside MI6 the mask on his face barely restrained the distinctive heavy pant of his breathing while Q looked on unamused and tutted distinctly.

“Come on, Bond. Are you taking this test seriously or not?”

The glare Bond levelled at Q could have killed a small mammoth, but not the Quartermaster of MI6 who stood at his laptop and typed something in while Bond pushed his burnt-out body, trying to squeeze out a little bit more, his legs moving faster, his feet pounding harder.

“Is that really the best you can do?”

With one last great effort, summoning every last ounce of strength in his body, James Bond pumped his arms and drove his legs while his burning lungs gasped for more and more of the thin high-altitude mixture fed through the mask that he wore. 

A few feet away Q tutted and glared and shook his head. “Really, 007! The least you could do is actually make an effort!” Q all but snapped. Just at that moment a buzzer went off, the treadmill stopped and James Bond collapsed to the floor. Within seconds he was yanking the mask off and gasping up lungfuls of the heavily air-conditioned air in the room to refuel his parched, burning muscles.

“Pathetic,” Q surmised. He adjusted his glasses and glanced down at the sorry heap of sweat and flesh currently gasping on the floor. “Third double-o this week to miss the baseline and here I was under the impression you lot had some basic measure of fitness. I'm going out for some tea. When I return I expect you to be gone from my floor. Oh, and do send 003 in, if you will.”

~

“Then man's a sadist!” 003 insisted.

005 snorted at that. “Hey! That's an insult to sadists, that is.”

The group currently huddled around a corner table of the MI6 canteen was, quite possibly, the deadliest group of assassins anywhere in the world. There were half a dozen double-'s currently doing time in London and all of them, for reasons unknown to themselves, had become targets for Q's latest battery of tests. Strength, conditioning, fitness, heart rate, oxygen-usage, electrolyte balance and dietary needs. Worst were the endless swims, runs, gym workouts, treadmill sessions, mini tours-de-France on the static bicycle in his lab in the epic quest for some unreachable fitness goal that only Q seemed to think actually existed.

“There's something wrong with him,” 003 continued, “That's what I'm saying.”

“He mentioned something about a new baseline,” Bond informed them.

“Just how fit does he need us?” 005 complained.

“Bastard wouldn't be able to do his own tests,” 003 grumbled.

Something about that last comment made James Bond's piercing eyes sharpen in such a way that the other double-0's stopped and looked towards him. 

It was at that precise moment that the MI6 chief of staff, Bill Tanner, walked in and took in the odd gathering huddled in the one eery corner of the canteen where the striplight flickered. The familiar slow footfall of Tanner's well worn shoes wound its way through the half-empty tables to take his place standing before them at the end of the table, at which point Tanner cleared his throat softly.

“Agents,” The Chief-of-Staff acknowledged. “Bond. Q finished with you then?”

“Yes, Bill. Care to join us?”

“Not this time, James,” Bill told his friend before aassessing each agent in turn. “Anything I need to be worried about? Any coups d-etat I didn't get the memo about? A small nuclear war? The Russian President's visit?”

“We were just discussing the Quartermaster's new fitness requirements,” Bond informed Tanner.

“Ah, yes. M was concerned about shifting the goalposts,” Tanner confided, “But Q was convinced that with better sports science we could achieve improved results. I'm told that with the right fitness and dietary regime the new targets are perfectly achievable. Q seemed quite convinced and of course M started paying an interest when Q branch's experts started talking about a higher calibre of agent. All in the name of national security, you understand. We now know every detail about the bodies of all our top agents. Strength, fitness, stamina, conditioning. Exactly how much you can take, exactly how much you can give. Your electrolyte depletion, your oxygen use...he was convinced we could use sports science to get you all fitter and it seems he was right. I understand all your scores have been inching up. Very well done, by the way.”

“Fitter? Through torture?”

“Recognised sports science techniques, Bond.”

“And how, precisely, did he develop the programme? I suppose he must have tried it out himself first?”

“Quite probably, knowing Q. He seemed to be working very closely with the sports scientists he uses himself. All vetted, of course...but if there's anything you have concerns about..?”

“Not at all,” James replied genially. Bill, knowing James as well as he did, assessed the too-charming smile just as James abruptly stood up and patted Bill on the back. 

Bond's overly warm tone and affectionate manner immediately made Tanner wonder what he was up to. Was Bond hatching something?

Bond hummed thoughtfully. “It did occur to me, Bill, if the results of this new regime might be better put in context against a different baseline. A regular employee, say, someone with a desk job?”

“Someone like the Quartermaster,” Pressed 005.

Tanner looked from one to the next. “You want the Quartermaster to do the new tests?”

The three agents' sychronised shrug made Bill Tanner roll his eyes.

“If the Quartermaster does the tests,” 003 announced, we'll accept his results as the new baseline. Right, 007?”

“Right.”

~

It was later, it was dark and in the trendy Pimlico bar across the Vauxhall Bridge from MI6 the Quartermaster and Chief of Staff of MI6 conspired over a small shandy.

“You didn't tell them?” Q asked.

“Of course I didn't tell them,” Tanner leaned on the bar and grabbed another handful of salted peanuts.

“I've improved my personal best, you know.”

“I don't doubt it.”

“Fine. I'll do the test for them. But you are sworn to secrecy!”

Tanner looked up and noted the cheeky glint in the Quartermaster's eye. This should be good!

~

“003. 005. 007,” Q told the assembled agents, “It has come to my attention that you have some concerns about the achievability of the new fitness requirements I am attempting to implement for double-o agents. Tanner has been good enough to explain the many and varied ways in which you believe the new baseline to be unrealistic.”

The agents looked at each other nodded.

“That's right, Q,” 003 said. “You're asking too much.”

“And you feel that a more realistic baseline might be, say the fitness of a Head Office employee?”

“That was the general consensus,” 007 spoke up.

“Someone like your good self,” 005 added.

“So if I understand correctly, you want to demonstrate your point by asking me to do my own tests myself?” Q looked from agent to agent. Behind them, Bill Tanner entered the room.

“Seems only fair, Quartermaster,” Bill Tanner spoke up. He saw Bond nod at him in greeting and nodded at him in return. “Gives them something to compare their own results to.”

“Alright, then. Let it not be said that I ask my agents to something I'm not prepared to do myself. I'll do the tests and whatever my results are, will be the new baseline, yes?”

The three double-o agents looked at each other. They took in the scrawny form of the office-bound Quartermaster and bit back their smiles.

“Right then,” Q snapped his heels together. “If you'll excuse me for one moment?”

~

Five minutes in his office and Q emerged in running shorts and a vest. The three agents were surprised to note that the Quartermaster's limbs were actually more muscled than one would suspect from the baggy clothes he draped himself in, but in a skinny, wolfish sort of way. 

“Looks like a stiff wind would knock him over,” 003 observed.

Bond smirked the cannibal smile that slid onto his face whenever he was about to eat someone alive.

If asked, Q would have admitted that he was slightly nervous, but only because he wasn't accustomed to running in front of an audience. Or on a treadmill. He told himself to think of the road, think of the sky and the trees and the fresh air he loved so much and just get on with it. “Bill? R?”

“Ready, Quartermaster,” R replied. Looking around, they had actually gathered quite an audience. Several of the Q-Branch employees were taking an interest in the showdown between their illustrious leader and the deadly double-o's and several whoops of encouragement echoed through the basement before Tanner switched the treadmill on and gave Q a nod.

R fitted the oxygen mask. “Now,” She told Q, “We'll start slowly. Just remember to breathe.”

 

_Some time later..._

“That's not possible,” Bond muttered as Q broke through the fitness baseline with aplomb and still looked fresh as a daisy.

“That is inhuman,” 005 commented. It wasn't possible, surely, for the Quartermaster to actually keep going. He looked like he hadn't even been outside in a decade. He wasn't exactly Mo Farah, was he?

“He can't possibly keep going, can he?” 003 asked. The bet swam into 003's mind. Had they really agreed to accept Q's fitness results as the new baseline?

“Tanner,” 007 spoke up, “A word?”

“Bond, if you don't mind I'm little busy right now.” Tanner looked down at the tablet in his hand with Q's oxygen usage and heart rate. He was bearing up well, but given his background that was hardly a surprise.

“Just how fit is the Quartermaster, exactly?”

“Not sure, why?”

“You couldn't have mentioned, say, that he did a bit of running in his spare time?”

“Not his spare time, Bond. He's much too busy with his triathlons to have any of that but M has been very understanding about fitting his Quartermaster duties around his training schedule.” Tanner said all of this with great disinterest, he didn't look up at Bond and except with a distant passing glance his eyes were fixed on the information of the tablet. “Well done, Q, keep going.”

“Training schedule?” 003 demanded. “No one said anything about a bloody training schedule!”

“Oh, I just assumed you knew.”

“Knew what?” 005 demanded.

Tanner paused in his perusal of the tablet screen, “You know, that he's a three time Ironman World Champion. Why do you think he's so careful about keeping his name quiet?”

“Q is...”

“Currently pounding your pathethic fitness tests into the ground, Bond. I trust you'll be keeping to the new baseline you agreed? 003 I see you have your hand up, yes you may go to the bathroom. Would you like a hall pass? You may want to get snacks on the way back; Q's personal best for swimming three miles, cycling a hundred and running a marathon currently comes in somewhere a little over eight hours. We're going to be here for a little while. I'm sure no one would mind if you want to bring in a camp bed. 005, are you quite alright?”

005 looked liked he wanted to vomit. 003 wasn't far behind him. 007 by contrast had taken a renewed interest in the Quartermaster's pert bottom. It looked distinctly to Tanner like Bond wanted to test the Quartermaster's stamina in other, more personal ways.

“Eight hours, you say?” Bond asked curiously. His head tilted as he watched Q's thighs ripple with the contained effort of a long-distance runner.

Behind the oxygen mask Q's eyes danced with what could only be described as smart-arsed smugness.

003 meanwhile looked on in horror. “The new fitness requirements...”

“Will be made available to agents as soon as Q's finished. You don't look well, 003. Would you like to go and get some fresh air? Q will still be here when you get back. Oh and do send our love to 001 and 002. I'm sure they'll appreciate you undertaking collective bargaining on their behalf.”

003 sat down hard.

005 vomited into a pot plant.

007 crossed his arms and grinned at Q, shaking his head. Well, if the Quartermaster was going to put on a show he might as well settle in for the ride. After all, clearly the little bastard had been holding out on him.

~


End file.
